Sting
by CSI Clue
Summary: House gets spanked. Not gently, either.


Sting

She blocks your escape, and it's laughable; her little curvy form is half your size, really and with a single hard push you know you could sweep Cuddy aside with one arm, but you stop. Not chivalry, not courtesy freezes you; no it's the anger in her gray eyes.

They're furious, throwing sparks now, the warning clear and dangerous, matching the growl rising up from her throat. She narrows them, all the better to focus her rage and in that laser intensity you feel your own fear rise up within.

Ridiculous. This is Cuddy, barely up to your shoulder for Christ's sake, but your balls know more than your brain right now, and you stand there, caught in her stare. Then her voice, a husky whisper hisses out.

"You. Idiot! God, Greg, you never learn, do you? This entire hospital, this job, this vocation is just as disposable as a used latex glove to you, isn't it? You treat me and everyone else around here as if we're just props for your life; disposables to be tossed when you're done with us. Well I've got news for you, pal, nobody, not even my best doctor gets away with a God complex, not at my hospital. We've officially reprimanded you, docked your pay, send you on unofficial leave and none of that's worked. Maybe it's time to drive the message home a little **harder**, Greg."

Her hand shoots out, fingers splaying against your shirt, and the pressure of it is a sweet little shock to the system. You look down, holding your sneer but under it every muscle is tense. She's right about your shitty attitude; you'd never deny that, but what else is there to punish you? Termination? Hardly likely. More clinic Duty? Not a chance—

"What? Going to take away my phone privileges? Spank me—" the minute the taunt comes out you flush a bit, and Cuddy, sweet Cuddy does NOT miss that, not with those smoky eyes scanning your face. The fingers on your shirtfront tighten, and the smirk at the corner of her mouth is a dangerous, beautiful thing to see.

"Oooohhh what a great idea. Yeah," Cuddy growls, and she actually laughs now, face tipped up to look at you appraisingly. "You'd never last through it, would you, Greg? Draped over my lap with your bare ass getting whipped like some naughty little boy—the **ultimate** humiliation for a fine upstanding intellectual like you," her throaty voice drips scorn like hot fudge and the tone of it wriggles into your ear,

Damn the woman. Damn her insinuation and most of all damn her deadly insight. She's got you like a deer in the headlights now, and you have to backpedal to get things balanced again, because it's dangerous territory you're going into. Late night images; shameful and black and raw.

"You're no threat, Cuddles," you snap back, but it's weak as hell, and she knows it, pressing her advantage along with her hot little body, crowding against you until you're dizzy. Never mind you could step back; no, the pressure of hips and thighs are pulling you closer even as you try to sneer.

"Of course not," she practically purrs, "Which is why your heart rate's just jumped about six beats a minute and your pupils are dilated. Poor Greg House is actually worried about getting his ass beaten by the **only** person at this hospital who isn't afraid of his big bad wolf act."

It's bait, pure and simple, and you rise to it against your will, glaring at her, working your jaw to fight the ratcheting tension moving through your inner thighs. Time to call this bluff because you're sure she'll fold after a few more insults, and later you can lie in the dark of your bedroom and edit the fantasy.

"Bullshit—" You reply, and damn it, your voice is unsteady; enough for her to cock her head and flash that cool knowing smile once more. The line's been drawn and Jesus jumped up H on a sidecar she's sauntering over it as her hand snakes out behind her to lock her office doors. You feel a hot flush roll through you, followed by a cool one. You can hear your own pulse in your ears.

"You're not going anywhere, Greg. Too late." Cuddy informs you as she walks away, her steps deliberate. You look at the door, knowing that if you even touch them, you've lost. The only choice left now is to turn and stare at her, seeing her in a different shade of red now as she coolly goes to her desk and stands behind her chair, stroking the back of it with long fingers.

"You . . . really think I'm going to **let** you . . . do that to me." Comes your statement, flat and low as you can make it. Not a question, because it isn't one anymore. Cuddy's smile curls on her pretty mouth, a siren's triumph. She hums an affirmative.

"Yes, you are."

And between one breath and the next, both of you know it's true. You're almost dizzy with the thrum of anticipation through your body, hyperaware of everything in this office: the silk flowers, the mute lighting, the perfume of the queen imperiously waiting for you to get your ass over to her.

You step forward, and the stillness breaks; Cuddy pushes her chair out, rolling it until the back of it is braced against front of her desk. She settles into it, skirt riding high on her stocking covered legs while you stare. Great thighs—you've always known that, but they take on a new fascination now. You want to . . . lick them, and to fight the impulse, you wipe a hand over your mouth. Cuddy pats her lap and stares directly at you, the heat in her gaze steadily compelling you forward. You take another traitorous step nearer.

"Come on."

And before you realize it you're there, next to her, pulled by the black compulsion pooling through your hips and cock while you sane mind begins to recede. Now you're working on suggestion and impulse, so when Cuddy works her fingers along the hasp of your belt you don't move; don't stop her. She unbuckles it and moves to your fly, and God, she can't possibly **miss** your erection straining there, heavy and thick . . .

"Boxers too, Greg. You're going to give me uncovered flesh to mark, aren't you?" she gloats, forcing you to close your eyes and feel the sweat begin along your temples. You tug them down, the cool air hitting your flesh, arousing you even more. To be standing here in Cuddy's office with your pants and underwear sagging at your knees, cock bobbing in the air . . .

"Down, boy." She orders, and now her voice holds that hint of menace. She's not laughing as you struggle to lower yourself over her lap, moving awkwardly; less afraid of the pain lancing through your thigh than you are of disobeying her.

God, afraid of scaring her off. Because you're committed now, in some twisted prideful way, yeah, you know the line in the sand's not only been crossed, it's been left yards behind now. You bluffed; she called. It's time.

Cuddy slides her left hand up along your back, gliding over the tee shirt and up the nape of your neck until her fingers weave into the thick hair there and grip. She's not pulling; just holding firmly, the no nonsense grip that holds you in your place. Her fingers are strong and it feels good in a twisted way.

The other hand strokes along the small of your back and down over your ass, the palm cool and you moan because it feels nice. You realize with a dizzy pang that it's Cuddy's—Lisa's-- hand now over your bare skin, gliding over it with a gentle touch.

God. Touching you as if she's got all the time in the world to do this right and make it hurt and that shouldn't be making you throb so damned hard against her skirt covered thighs. She gives a little sigh.

"Christ this has been a long time coming, Greg. You're a smug, arrogant bastard and I'm going to enjoy this."

You start to reply, but before you can the hiss and sting of her hand, smacking hard on your right cheek stuns you and you suck in a breath, startled. The crack of it; perfectly landed and now radiating heat burns and your body clenches in reaction.

Oh. God.

Cuddy chuckles, and a second smack, just as forceful lands on your left cheek, this one with the added humiliation of making you hiss a bit. The hand at the nape of your neck tightens slightly.

"Shut up, Greg. Running your smart mouth is what **got** you here," Cuddy growls at you. She draws back; you can feel her lean torso twist a bit and you can't help but flinch, not knowing where the blow is going to land, the tension . . . ooohhhhh . . . . you feel her breath on your skin now . . . . cooling it.

"You look good with my handprints on your hard ass," she comments with a laugh in her voice. "Let's try a few more—"

And with a slowness that makes you grit your teeth, she slams another smack, meaty and hard just above your thigh, all those years of tennis pretty damned obvious in the power—God, Cuddy has a hell of a stronger arm than you realized, but you can't think as another one rains down, nearly on top of the first one, making the skin heat flare up again.

You're gasping, fighting the moan that wants to roll out of your throat. Cuddy's grip on your hair isn't letting you hang your head, and she's driving you insane with how deliberately she smacks you, making you **wait** for it each time. They **hurt**, these smacks cracking against the skin and recharging the fire each time, making you more sensitive, more focused on the radiating heat flooding your entire ass.

You lose count. You groan and rock and Cuddy hits you again and again and again.

"Oh yeah, that's looking very nice, Greg. Warmed up good, aren't we. Because we're not done, you know—" Cuddy finally mutters in a soothing voice, her hand now barely skimming over her throbbing ass. You flinch, rubbing a bit, barely able to manage coherent thought for the moment because too much of you is lost somewhere else, where sensation is all you know.

You dimly feel her twist again, and reach behind her, and her words don't make sense at first.

"And now, it's time to really make this last. Know what this is?" comes her breathless demand. You feel something cool along your ass now, a sliver of ice against the throbbing heat and you want to turn and look, but Cuddy's still got a death grip on your hair so you can't.

She knows you can't, and laughs a little, working her fingers deeper into your wet curls.

"It's my nameplate, Greg. The wood and brass one that says _Doctor Lisa Cuddy_. It's the perfect tool for imprinting my name on your ass, because your ass belongs to me, doesn't it?"

You moan. It's true and HAS been for ages; this is just the formality. And you know that nameplate very well.

She laughs. "Say it, Greg. Your ass belongs to me."

"M-My ass . . ." You manage and then with no warning hard and sharp in a crack of white-hot pain searing hard through your right cheek you FEEL it shit YEAH THATonesgoingtoleaveafuckingMARK—the lash of that long thin nameplate meets your wounded flesh in a kiss of pain.

"Say it—" She orders happily. You suck in air and try again. "My-my ass bel—"

Again the sting three times more, harder and sharper, biting into the overly sensitive skin and you feel tears watering your eyes even as your cock is about to fucking **explode** all over Cuddy's Donna Karan skirt because it's all rolled together now the pain and pleasure, reality and fantasy and one . . . more . . . will—

Down it comes, that lash of white hot fire igniting the fuse and you hoarsely yell even as Cuddy forces your head down against the outside of her thigh, muffling your confession against the cloth, wetting it with your tears and saliva.

You don't know how much time has passed. The phone on the desk rang once but both of you ignored it. You're sprawled on the carpet, your head on Cuddy's thighs, still drifting somewhere, only aware that her hands are stroking your hair.

You're weightless. Free. Even your pain is gossamer right now as you blink and breathe, utterly at peace for the moment. And when you gradually become aware of things again, you focus on the glitter coming from under the chair. You fish for it, picking up the nameplate and seeing your reflection in the brass, Lisa's name seemingly etched on your face as you keep staring.

End.


End file.
